


Jetsam Blanc

by Nyanoka



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types, Pocket Monsters: Sword & Shield | Pokemon Sword & Shield Versions, 薄明の翼 | Hakumei no Tsubasa | Pokemon: Twilight Wings (Anime)
Genre: Canon ages, Character Study, First Kiss, Hand Jobs, Hospital Sex, Hospitals, M/M, Terminal Illnesses, Underage - Freeform, Written Pre-Finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:21:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25258396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nyanoka/pseuds/Nyanoka
Summary: John knows his time is running out.
Relationships: Dande | Leon/John (Pokemon: Twilight Wings)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 11





	Jetsam Blanc

**Author's Note:**

> I just did this because I thought "why not?"" It exists, and I will add to it. I do think John's design looks like it's from Digimon though...I thought it'd be fun to do since I've been feeling rather existential lately...and thus, this ended up as a bit of a "cooldown fic." Also keeping that "hospital sex" tag b/c it's like...gotta cover myself when it comes to everything..."Choose not to warn" is also active...though I did fail at writing a ficlet again...too long...
> 
> John also doesn't have a canon age really outside of "young" but the tag is pretty much just so readers know it's not a aged up fic.
> 
> Unrelated but I also wish I didn’t have to blockchain so much on my Twitter but it’s getting more messy in recent months because of everyone being home for summer/quarantine...

John doesn’t mind that it is his first kiss.

Why should he? Leon is his hero, and even with his own understanding of everything, he doesn’t mind.

He remembers his mother’s words well enough. Before everything and back when she still visited, his mother had warned him enough times about inappropriate touching: the uncle whose touch lingers too long, the boyish roughhousing that turns into sexual harassment, and a plethora of other examples, ideas a mixture of both the reasonable and the exaggerated.

His mother is the doting sort—voice chiding upon even a tardiness of a mere few minutes, hands handing him an extra jacket on mildly chilly days, and movements swift even upon seeing a simple, shallow scrape on his knee—but he doesn’t mind, not when he barely sees her now.

Rather, he misses her and everything else, soft voice intermingling with the hum of their television and ceiling fan rather than the indistinguishable mix of nurses, speech strained and placid, and turning machinery, monitors beeping alongside the steady whirling.

Joy, Caroline, Velvet, and a number of others.

He knows the names of the nurses that attend to his ward, he knows their appearances and their mannerisms, and he knows their responses, all rehearsed and all nearly the same.

Awkward laughter and a forced detour into another topic whenever he asks about his mother and her disappearance, nervous glances elsewhere and a standard “You’re doing well today!” whenever he asks about his condition, and an assortment of other false pleasantries.

He knows the meaning of their words, or lack thereof, well enough. He isn’t stupid even if he doesn’t voice his thoughts.

No one wants to tell a child that their mother has accepted—as much as a mother could anyhow—her child’s death.

More often than not, care and concern are often the death of acknowledgement, happy memory and its preservation taking precedence over melancholic reality.

That is how he justifies her absence.

And most importantly, no one wants to tell a child that they’re dying.

He knows of course. How could he not? His body has thinned, pajamas loosened around bony shoulders and drawstrings drawn and tied tightly around an overly small waist, and he couldn’t quite taste anymore, nothing besides unpleasantness.

Even the Rage Candy Bar he had weeks earlier had tasted awful—overly chalky and bitter instead of the rich, smooth chocolate he remembers and berry filling more akin to expired cough medicine than Pecha.

He wasn’t supposed to have it anyway—Tommy had gotten a scolding afterwards after he had vomited, half-chewed and spittle-covered candy spilling from his mouth and into the nearby waste bin—but he had asked for it.

It hadn’t been smart of either of them—despite his dwindling appetite, he’s still supposed to be on a regulated diet—but he had needed it, a reminder of normalcy and something from outside the hospital. It, the Rage Candy Bar, had been his favorite, something he had always gotten, always begged his mother for at the checkout, on the occasions when they visited the supermarket.

He doesn’t like the memory of it, chalky and bitter and more of a reminder of everything now than of before, but it, like his condition, isn’t something he could simply change.

Instead, he could only distract himself—memories and hopes and dreams blending together like one of the abstract paintings on his mother’s bedroom wall.

He shouldn’t be here. He doesn’t _want_ to be here, and yet, he is.

He should be outside, roaming about Galar with his Pokémon or perhaps even simply studying for exams.

He shouldn’t be here—thirteen and dying—but he is.

He hasn’t gotten a Pokémon. He hasn’t graduated middle school. He hasn’t even grown up—body instead weakening, trembling and gasping; body often overcome by unnatural sleepiness unfit for his someone of his age; and body now bruising too easily, dark splotches marring his skin and underneath his sunken eyes.

Tommy hasn’t gotten a Pokémon either, but it would be rectified soon enough. John knows it. His eleventh birthday is coming up after all.

It is the right of every child growing up, everyone’s except his.

As selfish as it is, he sometimes wishes their positions were reversed—Tommy trapped in this room and he visiting with his Pokémon—but that would never happen.

Naturally, it makes him feel guilty—Tommy visits whenever he can, and they are best friends despite everything—but he doesn’t want to be here, surrounded by machinery and pitying faces.

He knows what the adults think of him even if they never explicitly say it. John hears their gossip well enough on the nights when they think he’s asleep, and he has seen how Tommy’s father looks at him when he thinks he doesn’t notice.

Sad and pitying even as his son chatters excitedly about his day and the activities they would do once he finally heals. He’s fairly certain that the visits are at Tommy’s insistence. Much like his own mother and the nurses, no adult, especially a parent, wants to see a dying child. It is proof enough in how Tommy's father looks at him and in how Tommy chatters, hopes undaunted and voice excited rather than miserable.

No one has told Tommy yet.

Of course, he doesn’t mind Tommy’s visits. They’re some of the few things he still looks forward to, and he much prefers Tommy’s chatter over the hum of machinery and the pattering of rain that sometimes comes, beating upon his room’s window and upon the roof, akin to a rabbit’s footsteps or a fervent heartbeat.

He doesn’t mind the rain either. It is much more interesting than simple sunshine or the handful of channels available on his television—noisier and more distracting as well—but it couldn’t replace human conversation, genuine interaction and not the rehearsed rhymes of the nurses.

But still, he shouldn’t be here. He doesn’t want to be here.

And most importantly, he doesn’t want to die. He doesn’t want to say goodbye for a final time.

Nonetheless, it isn’t a matter that could be changed, not without a miracle—some fallacy fit more for a fairy tale than reality.

He couldn’t change anything, but he could still cling to the everything of before and to normalcy—his dreams, his hopes, and his memories.

He remembers what it’s like to be normal—his illness had been gradual and inexplicable, a consequence of poor luck rather than anything else—and that, more than anything, hurts the most.

He still remembers.

It hadn’t been a fault of his own choices or even the choices of his parents. It had simply happened, a regular checkup for spring allergies and bleeding gums that had ended in alarm and eventually, permanent hospitalization.

They hadn’t called it permanent, but he understands well enough.

He doesn’t want to think about the hospital, the tests and treatments, or his own death.

Thus, he clings to the past: sweet and whimsical and happy. No matter how foolish, stupid, or childish his fixation is, he must. He doesn’t want to think about the alternative.

Perhaps it’s stupid to focus on exhibition match tickets, on his letter, and on meeting Leon. He is dying after all, and a letter isn’t much—he’s certain that Leon receives a countless number of them per day, and he doesn't even know if his has been delivered—but he must place his hopes on it. He has no other choice, no other thread or lifeboat to ride upon. He doesn’t want to think about the sterile white of the hospital corridors, the bruising hidden underneath his clothes, or about anything pertaining to the end.

He shouldn’t have to, not at his age, but he must.

He couldn’t ride out the storm, but he could make it—the wait for the end—more bearable.

He doesn’t expect Leon to come—he isn't stupid—but he must _believe_ that he would. He couldn’t let his thread snap or his lifeboat capsize even as the string begins to frays and as the seawater begins to wet his ankles.

John doesn’t expect Leon to come, but he does, doorknob clicking and door swinging softly open at some odd hour of some odd night.

He hadn’t been awake then. Nowadays, he’s too tired for that, and it isn’t like there’s anything interesting on TV at this hour—no adult cartoons or anything besides some old black and white movies and static.

Naturally, he assumes it’s one of the nurses—they like to check up on him occasionally—and thus, he hadn’t turned or opened his eyes. Why would he? Most left after a few seconds or perhaps a minute of observation.

He doesn’t open his eyes or even move, tussling sheets or even simply drawing them up further.

Not until he he hears a familiar voice, soft and deep—deeper than the ones he’s become accustomed to and accompanied by the rustling of a paper bag and the thump of something being set down.

Even if they’ve never met before, he knows Leon’s voice by heart. He’s watched enough matches and replays to memorize it—the slight lilt and drawl of his accent, the pleasant tenor, and even his propensity for accentuating certain vowels, always upon the A’s.

No cameras, no flashing lights, only the dim blue of moonlight spilling through the gap in the window curtains, seawater leaking inward, and they themselves—youth peering through the looking glass and at distant, clear skies.

Thus, John doesn’t mind that it is his first kiss.

He doesn’t mind because Leon is his hero—his lifeline and his lifeboat. He doesn’t mind because Leon asks before he does, gentle, soft, yet blunt and unlike the pleasantries he’s become used to, raindrops crystalizing into snowflakes before dissipating, melting, once more into obscurity.

They aren’t falsities and pretenses, a touch and a voice befit more for comforting a dying dove or a shaking rabbit, warm body eventually stilling, but a simple plainness, kind and most importantly, meant for addressing a person—all hopes, all dreams, and all memories and not for pity or for one’s own comfort.

Everything, from the large, rough palm holding his hand, thin, so very thin and so very unlike the years of before; to the deep rumble his voice, a marker of adulthood rather than of adolescence; to the shape and tone of his face—healthy brown darkened further by the sun rather than shade—reminds him of the future, the unreachable sky.

It isn’t like he himself, wilting and thinning and pale—near-pallid as a fresh corpse and bruised—and rotting inside a hospital room. Certainly, he’s allowed outside from time to time, but it isn’t the same, more akin to a free-range animal allowed to gaze outward and pass the barbwire fence but never to truly cross the boundary rather than any true freedom.

He allows it—accepts every facet of the occasion—because Leon is his hero, a dream, a childish reverie, of a faraway land and blue skies and because he asks, honest and soft and sure.

Even with the scratchiness of his beard—would he have had one if he were allowed to grow? Or would he have chosen something different or even simply remained clean-shaven?—John doesn’t mind. Even when he feels fingers slip into his waistband and still, elastic raised and warm, calloused fingertips pressing against his belly, he doesn’t mind.

He only tightens his grip on Leon’s hand, fingers intertwining with some difficulty because of the difference in size, and parts his lips. As wordless as everything is, it is enough of a permission for them both—youth gazing toward the future and adulthood gazing back.

He couldn’t outlast the storm, but he could make the wait more bearable. He could reach out, head tilted back with lips parted and fingers outstretched toward the stars above, and wait as his vessel sinks, seawater and rainwater alike filling.

He could reach out and wait.

He would take what he can and taste of adulthood what he can before throwing everything else overboard.

Thus, John doesn’t mind the hand upon his bottoms’ waistband, the loosening of drawstrings, and the chill of the night air, moonlight spilling upon and lapping at splotchy skin, as Leon pulls the fabric and his undergarments downward.

He doesn’t mind the tongue in his mouth—wet and warm and moving like summer waves—the fingers that curl gently and easily around his cock, or the hand that holds his, firm yet unhurting.

Tongue pushing against his and sliding from the molar to the incisor and back alongside the grips upon his hand and upon his cock, index finger pressing and rubbing against a small, leaking slit and palm moving upward and downward.

There is a a sureness, an honesty and genuineness to everything, and that is why he accepts, panting and eager.

Leon doesn’t treat him like an animal to be euthanized, like a crippled fawn to be pitied, or even simply like a child should be.

He is a child of course, but he doesn’t want to be. He doesn’t want to be trapped in childhood as everyone else—his mother, Tommy, and even Leon himself—moves forward, sailing for a horizon he can never reach.

Leon’s motions aren’t rough—more even and perhaps even a bit too unhurried—but he finds himself cumming soon anyhow, white staining and sticky upon his hand. He isn’t experienced after all nor does his constitution allow for anything more.

Though, Leon doesn’t withdraw from the kiss nor do his hands leave. Instead, he only continues, honest and soft and sure. Even when John’s eyes water, a natural consequence of having to breath shallowly through his nose and the soreness of his jaw, Leon doesn’t stop nor does he himself stop him.

But still, it isn’t forceful—it has never been forceful—and it stops when he asks, when he rescinds his permission rather.

When he loosens his grip upon Leon’s hand, a wordless request as his fingers relax and disentangle themselves, Leon stops, warm tongue withdrawing from his mouth and the hand upon his cock leaving. They don’t separate entirely—their hands are still touching, sweaty palms meeting—but the distance between them is far enough, sky once again unreachable.

At the very least, Leon doesn’t leave then. John only finds a tissue pressed against his cock, wiping up leftover cum. It isn’t the cleanest solution—it’s still a bit too sticky for that—but he appreciates the sentiment.

After wiping his dirtied hand on the backside of the tissue, Leon crumples it before tossing it into the nearby waste bin. Only then does he withdraw his other hand.

Thankfully, Leon doesn’t leave then instead choosing to reach over and pick up his bag before setting it upon John’s lap.

A rather quiet affair really, but he’s only thankful that Leon hasn’t left yet.

Tissue paper rustling and parting underneath his hands, he doesn’t really expect to find a Wooloo doll underneath it all. Charizard or one of its kin perhaps but not Wooloo.

“My brother has one,” Leon explains, motioning toward the stuffed toy. “Thought it’d be better since Charizard’s a bit angular—not as soft you know? Good choice too I think since you already have one.”

He makes another motion toward the bag. “Dig a little further. I know I put them in there.”

John complies, hand pushing pass orange-tinged paper for a few seconds before his fingers meet with firm plastic. Hands shaking, John pulls them out.

Two passes—row 11–to a match scheduled for next Thursday, exactly nine days from now.

“Sorry, they’re a bit short notice.” They’re not in his opinion, not with what he knows of himself. “But well...” Leon pauses. “I thought sooner would be better than later, and they’re the soonest I could get. My brother got grounded for tipping over one of the neighbor’s cows, and Victor, his friend, got sick with the flu, so theirs were available.”

He pauses again, words now fumbling. “I mean. They’re not leftovers. They’re good seats, an—“

John shakes his head. “No, it’s fine. Thank you.”

He almost expects Leon to leave then—it’s late, and he knows someone of Leon’s stature would always be busy—but he doesn’t.

Instead, Leon only speaks, “I have a few more hours if you want to talk. Dunno if Charizard wants to show up though. He always hates when I send him out at this hour.”

Perhaps he’s overly eager when he replies, but Leon doesn’t seem to mind. He only nods and points to the adjoining bathroom.

“Do you want me to help you get cleaned up first?”

John nods before pulling up his pants and reaching over for the dresser drawer. Perhaps it is too blasé of a response after everything, but he isn’t particularly inclined to any other sort of response. He’s more happy about Leon staying for a few more hours than anything else.

It isn’t good for him—he can already feel a yawn bubbling inside his throat—but he doesn’t particularly care.

After all, time, more than anything else, is what he wants, and he doesn't want to say goodbye yet.

He doesn't care for goodbyes.

**Author's Note:**

> This ended up mildly more depressing than I planned tbh because originally I just wanted Leon to inappropriately touch John in a hospital bed. As a side note, I know Rage Candy Bar is based on Manjū, but I decided to go with it being a candy bar because that's how it's localized. Also considered whether to take a Mature or Explicit rating since it's not as saucy as my normal stuff, but eh...explicit seems the better choice because of fandom climate.
> 
> John's disease could also be taken as a real world disease—the symptoms are a bit similar—or as a fictitious disease. I decided to leave it open-ended that way. On Leon himself, he's actually working on some internal logic. It's not random, and hints of it can be seen in his section. Originally, I had an explanation typed, but I decided to keep it secret in case I want to do a Leon-centric fic.
> 
> Dunno what my next project is tbh...I kinda want to take “aged down” as a prompt since Twitter is arguing over “aging up” characters again. I have so many ideas and AUs logged though...maybe I'll combine some...
> 
> Voice is odd I know, but it's a "cooldown," and I'm not in the mood to do a overly "childlike" voice ya know? I still feel pretty awful, but it is cathartic to write...
> 
> Themes: Youth, Growing up, Death, Skies, Water


End file.
